The great thing about the two-dimensionality of the realtime-realspace continuum is that the sense of intimacy gets disconnected from the act of intimacy. You get the pleasure of the intimate exchange without having to clean up afterwards.

No risk, no mess.

In the New York Times recently, Noam Cohen delivers the profoundly unstartling revelation that a lot of celebrities have hired flacks to feed content into their Twitter streams, their blogs, and the various other online channels of faux authenticity.

A gentleman named Broadway (not his real name) thumbs tweets for rapper 50 Cent (not his real name), who has nearly a quarter million pseudonymous followers, making him an avatar among avatars. “He doesn’t actually use Twitter,” Broadway says of his famously bullet-puckered boss, “but the energy of it is all him.”

Ah, to be distilled to an essence, to merge into the electron/photon stream. Add this to Baudrillard’s list:

That’s the grand irony of Twitter: Even the real people on the service are fake. They are their own simulacra. No one actually lives their life 140 characters at a time. What we do is turn ourselves into works of fiction. Who’s real? Who’s not? Who cares?

Simulacrum = avatar = the energy.

The reason Dan Lyons had to quit being Fake Steve Jobs is that Fake Steve Jobs had become more Steve Jobs than Real Steve Jobs. It worked until Real Steve Jobs got sick. That tore a hole in the realtime-realspace continuum – illness is irreducibly physical – and Lyons lost his nerve. The existential nausea that is the lot of the ghostwriter overwhelmed him.